by Travis Gill
Recently, a friend asked us, “Don’t you get tired of traveling?”
Considering we’ve been living on the road full-time since March 2020, it felt like a fair question. But both Chantil and I genuinely love discovering new places and experiences—whether it’s the vast, untamed landscapes of Alaska or the vibrant flavors and culture of Mexico. We can’t imagine settling down anytime soon. There’s a deep sense of freedom in having only a pair of motorcycles—or an overland vehicle—to call home. And besides, there’s still far too much of this world we want to see.
Over the past year, we covered more than 29,000 miles across North America, from Baja, Mexico, to Prudhoe Bay, well above the Arctic Circle. We traveled east to the Florida Panhandle and west to North America’s most westerly highway at Anchor Point, Alaska. It’s been a remarkable year—one that filled our camera SD cards with memories we’re still working through, frame by frame.
January – Gulf Coast, Friendships, and a Rocket
The year began in Florida. As residents, we needed to renew our driver’s licenses so they wouldn’t expire during our planned three to four years of travel through South America. Once that was done, we pointed our handlebars west.
Our plan was simple: ride our pair of Kawasaki KLR650 adventure motorcycles down through Baja California, take a ferry to mainland Mexico, and continue south through Central America. But first, we had to reach California.
Just after New Year’s, we arrived in New Orleans and settled into a small Airbnb for the weekend. Although we’d visited before, our previous stays had been brief. This time, we finally experienced Bourbon Street and spent hours exploring the outstanding National WWII Museum. We also made time to visit StudioBE, where large-scale street art powerfully reflects the city’s history and culture.
While in New Orleans, we connected with our motorcycle overlanding friends Michnus and Elsebie of Piki Piki Overland. Coincidentally, they were returning from Mexico and staying in Boca Chica, Texas, hoping to witness a SpaceX Starship launch. We loaded up the motorcycles and followed the Gulf Coast west toward South Padre Island.
Seeing SpaceX’s Starbase facility up close is astonishing. From a public access road, you can stand less than 100 yards from humanity’s largest rocket—close enough to feel the scale of what’s being built. Standing there, face to face with a machine designed to one day carry humans to Mars, is deeply humbling.
During our stay, the launch was delayed three times. Still, we waited it out, hoping not only to see Starship lift off but, if luck allowed, to witness recovery of the booster.
On January 16th, thousands gathered at Isla Blanca Park as Starship Flight Test 7 roared into the Texas sky. The launch alone was amazing, however the best was yet to come. Five minutes after liftoff, a small glimmer of silver appeared overhead as the Super Heavy booster began its return to the launch pad. Moments later, it fired its engines, slowed its descent, and was successfully caught by the launch tower’s mechanical arms. It was an incredible experience!
The next morning, we rode with Michnus and Elsebie to Dilley, Texas, to take care of some overdue motorcycle maintenance. After a week there, we hugged our friends goodbye and continued west into the desert landscapes of southwestern Arizona.
February – A Devil’s Highway, Deep Sand, and a New Direction
If you’re a fan of street art, Marfa is not to be missed. This West Texas town is known as an arts hub, with contemporary art scattered throughout the town and surrounding desert landscape. Wandering without a plan is half the fun. Highlights included Prada Marfa, the Giant Marfa Mural, and the whimsical Sleeping Figure constructed from shipping containers.
From Marfa, we continued west to Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument in Arizona. We spent a long weekend hiking and camping beneath clear desert skies, enjoying the quiet beauty of this protected stretch of Sonoran Desert along the U.S.–Mexico border.
This area had been pinned on our map ever since reading The Devil’s Highway by Luis Alberto Urrea—a sobering account of migrants attempting to cross this region under brutal conditions. Riding here brought that story into sharp focus.
We tackled the 130 miles of the Devil’s Highway over two days and encountered some of the deepest sand we’ve ever ridden. Late on the first day, Chantil crashed and pulled a muscle in her leg. As the sun dropped and fatigue set in, an overlanding couple traveling in a truck camper appeared behind us—true guardian angels. They helped shuttle Chantil to camp and returned me to retrieve her motorcycle.
Bruised but determined, Chantil rested overnight and was able to ride the less demanding second day. By the time we reached pavement in Welton, Arizona, we were exhausted, grateful, and proud.
We continued on to San Diego—and that’s where everything changed.
For months, we’d casually searched for a used Jeep Wrangler, never quite finding the right one at the right price. Then, while browsing online, we spotted a white 2018 Rubicon with just over 60,000 miles—optioned almost exactly how we wanted. We decided to stop by and see if it was worth a test drive. Thankfully, it was. Just like that, we became the owners of a Jeep Wrangler—one we hoped to modify into an overland camper and open up an entirely new chapter of travel for us.
The excitement lasted until reality set in. We were already living a carefully balanced life on two motorcycles. Adding a Jeep—along with the gear, logistics, and responsibilities that came with it—instantly complicated everything. And with Baja just a week away, we had no plan for what to do with it.
Family in Arizona stepped in, offering space to store the Jeep until we returned from Mexico. With our motorcycles safely stored in San Diego, we loaded up the Jeep and drove east, turning its very first trip into an proper adventure.
Near the California–Arizona border, we stopped at Naval Air Facility El Centro, where the U.S. Navy Blue Angels conduct winter training. Being able to witness these F/A-18E/F Super Hornets perform their aerial ballet is an incredible sight and a true testament to their professionalism. Truly inspiring!
That night, we camped remotely and slept in the Jeep for the first time—unaware that it would become our bedroom for more than 120 nights over the coming year.
Once the Jeep was tucked away in Arizona, we boarded an Amtrak train back to San Diego, where our motorcycles waited—ready for Baja.
March – Baja Dreams and Gray Whales
Each winter, California gray whales migrate more than 10,000 miles between Arctic feeding grounds and the warm lagoons of Baja California Sur. With only one month left in the season, we crossed into Mexico at Tecate and headed south with purpose.
Northern Baja offered a familiar rhythm: dusty towns, roadside tacos, and endless desert highways. Highlights included Volcán Ceniza, La Lobera, El Rosario de Abajo, and long stretches of Federal Highway 1 framed by towering cacti.
As we passed beneath the large blue “Bienvenidos a Baja California Sur” highway sign, our excitement only grew. We were just 150 kilometers from the town of San Ignacio, where we had booked a whale-watching tour with Kuyimita. Riding the 66-kilometer dirt road from San Ignacio to the camp allowed us to stay beachside in a simple cabana, fully immersed in the setting.
The next morning, we woke up well before sunrise—the anticipation was so overwhelming that sleep was out of the question. We boarded the boat alongside a group of Mexican tourists who were just as excited as we were. With huge grins, we left the dock and motored south, hoping for a close encounter with the magnificent California gray whale.
The boat captains do their absolute best to give everyone a special experience, but sometimes it just isn’t in the cards. Finding—and getting close to—the whales can be a challenge, especially if they seem bothered by the boats. Thankfully, our skilled captain, with a bit of luck, brought us alongside a calf, allowing us to capture the experience on video.
The experience left us in awe. Thankfully, we had the rest of the day to relax on the beach and reflect on the magical moment we had just witnessed. Our world is truly a beautiful place, and coming face to face with such an incredible animal in its natural habitat was nothing short of enchanting.
From there, Baja unfolded effortlessly: remote dirt roads to San Juanico, turquoise waters along Bahía Concepción, quiet mornings kayaking to Isla El Coyote, and vibrant towns like Mulegé, Loreto, and La Paz.
La Paz gave us time to pause—maintenance for the motorcycles, an affordable dental checkup, street art walks, and excellent food. Eventually, curiosity pulled us onward, all the way to Cabo San Lucas. Spring break crowds made it a brief stop, and we quickly retreated north to the relaxed charm of Todos Santos.
As March ended, we boarded a ferry from La Paz to Topolobampo, crossing the Gulf of California overnight. We arrived tired—and woke to one of the most colorful towns we’d ever seen. Topolobampo bursts with vibrant homes and shops, each painted in the bold, cheerful hues that define Mexico. Welcome to mainland Mexico!
April – Copper Canyon and an Ancient Craft
Our goal on mainland Mexico was Barrancas del Cobre—Copper Canyon. Entering from the north, we followed winding dirt roads through the Sierra Madre Occidental, passing through small mountain towns before descending into Batopilas.
The scale of the canyon system is difficult to comprehend. Endless layers of blue and green stretched across the horizon, rewarding every mile of effort.
Afterward, we discovered another highlight in Mata Ortiz, a town renowned for its intricate pottery inspired by ancient Mogollón techniques. In the 1970s, the town experienced a revival when self-taught master potter Juan Quezada Celado reintroduced these ancient techniques.
Visiting Galería Quezada and seeing the craftsmanship firsthand was unforgettable, even if we had to leave empty‑handed due to limited storage on the motorcycles.
A few quiet riding days later, we crossed back into the United States at Agua Prieta.
May – Building a New Travel Companion
Back in February, we booked a ferry from Washington State to Alaska for the end of May. With a fixed departure date looming, we had just one month to transform the Jeep into a comfortable, capable overland rig.
In Arizona and Idaho, days blurred together as we worked from sunrise to sunset—installing a tow hitch, winch, auxiliary lighting, dual batteries, onboard air, communications gear, and an outdoor kitchen. The rear seats came out, a sleeping platform went in, and every inch of space was measured, adjusted, and refined until the Jeep felt less like a vehicle and more like a home.
The final piece—a pop-up camper from Ursa Minor—was installed in Portland, Oregon and completed just hours before our departure. With our new travel companion finally complete, we pointed the Jeep north and raced to catch the ferry in Bellingham, Washington, bound for Juneau, Alaska.
A new chapter was officially underway.
June – Open Roads and the Midnight Sun
Once the ferry departed Bellingham, our anxieties melted away. Life at sea quickly settled into a rhythm—sleeping in, sharing meals in the galley, and watching fjords, rainforests, and snowcapped peaks drift past our window.
Brief stops in Ketchikan and Sitka were just teasers; it wasn’t until Juneau that we had time to explore. Over a week, we wandered the city center and beyond—visiting the Alaska State Museum, the Capitol, and scenic seawalk—though we found ourselves most drawn to quieter spots north of the city, like Eagle Beach and the National Shrine of St. Thérèse.
From Juneau, a ferry took us to Haines, unlocking highways stretching from the southeastern panhandle to Alaska’s far north. After stocking up on supplies, we tackled a 150-mile stretch of the Haines Highway, some of the worst pavement we’ve ever driven. We were grateful for our off-road suspension. A few days of hiking near Kathleen Lake in Canada’s Yukon preceded our return to Alaska and entry into the vast wilderness of Wrangell–St. Elias National Park.
In the park, Nabesna Road offered solitude and raw beauty—creek crossings and rough terrain kept the crowds away, rewarding us with a hike to the Nabesna Mine and sweeping backcountry views. The McCarthy Road, by contrast, was wide and accessible, leading to the preserved ruins of McCarthy and the Kennicott Mines, a fascinating glimpse into Alaska’s copper boom.
Heading southwest through Thompson Pass, the modest 2,800-foot elevation felt alpine thanks to surrounding peaks and the massive Worthington Glacier. Descending brought us to Valdez, home to the southern terminus of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. After a few days of camping and museum visits, we ferried across Prince William Sound to Whittier and rolled onto the Kenai Peninsula, weaving through Homer, Seward, and Soldotna, known for the world-class salmon and trout.
The crowds eventually had us yearning for space again. We pushed north past Anchorage and Fairbanks to tackle the Dalton Highway—a 414-mile gravel road defined by isolation, extreme weather, and vast, empty landscapes. It delivered everything we hoped for: Arctic foxes, ptarmigan, caribou, even a muskox, all under the endless daylight of the Midnight Sun. Reaching Prudhoe Bay and adding our Viajar4WD sticker to the Deadhorse wall were unforgettable milestones.
Returning to Fairbanks marked a full month in Alaska, yet the journey was far from over. Hial, my brother-in-law, and several nephews had driven their coach RV up from Boise to meet us for an event that would turn out to be one of the most unexpected—and unforgettable—experiences of the trip.
July – Car Launches, Glaciers, and Grizzlies
Chantil and I had been eagerly anticipating July—it was the month that sparked the idea of visiting Alaska. One evening, a YouTube video popped up for the July 4th Glacier View Car Launch. Jalopy cars, painted in patriotic colors and outrageous themes, were hurled off a cliff to the cheers of thousands of spectators. It looked absurd, insane, and undeniably fun. We shared it with Hial, and it didn’t take much convincing—we had to see it in person.
On July 2nd, we met in Glacier View as Hial rolled in with his massive travel-coach RV, joined by six of our nephews for a month-long adventure through Alaska and Canada. Normally, Glacier View is quiet, with peaceful hikes and sweeping views of the Matanuska Glacier. During car launch week, that calm disappears—more than 10,000 people drive, fly, and even kayak in to watch the chaos.
The next day, we took a guided tour of the Matanuska Glacier, walking on living ice that creaks and shifts beneath your boots. Sharing the experience with Hial and our nephews made it even more special.
If you plan to attend the car launch, expect very little sleep. We stayed up past midnight, then crawled out at 4:30 a.m. to stake out the spectator zone. The first car didn’t launch until 2 p.m., but the hum of nearly 10,000 people kept naps impossible.
When it started, it went from zero to chaos. After a parade and the National Anthem, the first car roared off the cliff, freezing in midair like Wile E. Coyote before smashing into twisted metal just 50 feet from the crowd. Launches continued for hours—small cars, big vans, even an RV—but the crowd favorite was a Back to the Future Barbie Corvette, complete with a flux capacitor and glowing dash display. At the end, barriers dropped, and spectators swarmed the wreckage for souvenirs.
The next two weeks were a whirlwind of Alaska with Hial and the nephews. In Anchorage, we explored the Bass Pro Shops flagship and the Anchorage Museum, then north to the Iditarod Museum, where we took a sled ride behind a team of eager dogs and learned about the historic serum run to Nome.
A highlight was Wasilla, where we spent a few days with Jeramy and his family on their lakefront property—swimming, kayaking, and flying in his custom-built Cub bush plane. Skimming low over the wilderness felt like Alaska distilled to its purest form.
From there, we traveled north to Fairbanks, visited the North Pole, then drove along the historic Taylor Highway to the gold-rush town of Chicken, before crossing into Dawson City, Yukon. Every stop carried traces of the Gold Rush—hard lives, big dreams, and landscapes that didn’t care if you made it through.
After Dawson, it was time to part ways with Hial. We crossed the sky-blue bridge into isolation: 875 kilometers (544 miles) of gravel and wilderness on the Dempster Highway. Along the way, the Jeep developed an electrical gremlin, disabling the power steering at random, but we fixed it well enough to keep moving.
Reaching Tuktoyaktuk felt like a true finish line. We kicked off our shoes, rolled up our pant legs, and waded in the Arctic Ocean—remote, cold, and wildly satisfying. A stop at Grandma’s Kitchen for Arctic char and chips and a taste of raw muktuk (beluga whale) marked the moment perfectly.
Heading south, the Yukon continued to deliver. Whitehorse, the George Johnston Museum, and especially Sign Post Forest, where more than 100,000 signs have accumulated since 1942, offered both chaos and charm. Miraculously, we found the sign Hial had left just a week earlier—a small but meaningful connection amid so much randomness.
British Columbia delivered too: the Stewart–Cassiar Highway, Telegraph Creek Road, and the frozen-in-time charm of Stewart. Still, one goal remained—a grizzly bear. We’d seen foxes, elk, caribou, muskox, black bears, moose, a wolf, and a cougar—but no grizzly.
With salmon spawning season underway, we crossed into Alaska at Stewart and headed to the Fish Creek Wildlife Observation Site. On July 29th—Chantil’s birthday—we arrived at 6 a.m., only to find a crowd of bear enthusiasts already in place. Two hours passed. No bears.
We pressed on to Salmon Glacier for a quick break, then returned that afternoon. Finally, a mature sow appeared, moving along the creek and picking through berries. We were so close that our best photos came from our phones, but the moment—wild, intimate, and unforgettable—was worth more than any picture. For Chantil, seeing a grizzly on her birthday made it even sweeter.
August – British Columbia, Trolls and a Surprise Return
August began with another border crossing. After leaving Alaska, we headed south into British Columbia on the Stewart–Cassiar Highway, gradually trading major routes for quieter coastal roads. The detours paid off. Stops like the Nisg̱a’a Memorial and the Hli Goothl Wilp-Adokshl Nisga’a Museum added depth to the journey, grounding our travels in the region’s First Nations history. Towns such as Quesnel and Hope—forever linked to the original Rambo film—broke up the miles and added character.
One of the highlights of the month was nearly two weeks on Vancouver Island, exploring almost its entire 460-kilometer length. We gravitated toward the east coast, moving slowly between coastal towns from Nanaimo to Port Hardy. Island life had a way of easing the pace. More than once, we stayed an extra night simply to watch the ocean and wait out another sunset.
Farther north, Cape Scott delivered some of the wildest scenery of the trip. Old-growth forests, remote beaches, and rugged trails created a feeling of true isolation—raw, quiet, and well worth the effort to reach.
We wrapped up the island with a full day in Victoria. Using complimentary electric bikes from the hotel, we covered far more ground than expected. Ship Point, the marina, Fisherman’s Wharf’s floating homes, Thunderbird Park, and Victoria’s historic Chinatown all made the list.
After a short ferry ride back to the mainland, we leaned into the unusual. Stops included the Bloedel Conservatory, Port Moody, White Rock, and the Redwood Park Fairy Forest—a whimsical surprise filled with tiny fairy houses hidden among towering trees.
Point Roberts became one of the most intriguing stops of the month. Created by a 19th-century border decision following the 49th parallel, this two-mile-wide slice of the U.S. is accessible only through Canada—a geographic oddity and a fitting place to end our time in British Columbia.
Rain welcomed us back into Washington State, three straight days of steady showers. We waited it out by camping in the remote backcountry north of Mount Baker. When the forecast finally promised sunshine, we headed southwest with a new goal: finding the recycled-wood trolls created by Danish artist Thomas Dambo.
We first discovered Dambo’s trolls in Denmark and have been quietly collecting sightings ever since. Washington is home to five, known collectively as The Way of the Bird King. With the Troll Map loaded on our phones, we chased each “X” across the Seattle area—West Seattle, Bainbridge Island, Vashon Island, Issaquah, and Ballard. The search itself became part of the adventure, especially when it meant boarding Washington State ferries bound for the islands of the Puget Sound.
After a week exploring western Washington, we turned east toward Idaho carrying a secret. For weeks, we’d convinced Chantil’s mother we wouldn’t make it home for her 80th birthday—going so far as turning off our shared location tracking.
On August 26th, we walked in instead. Hundreds of family and friends were there to celebrate Mary Kay Brown—80 years, countless stories, and a life well lived. After months of movement, miles, and moments, August closed not with a road, but with family—exactly where it needed to end.
September – Family and a New Name
After months on the road through 2024 and 2025, September marked a welcome pause. Settling back into Boise felt grounding. Familiar grocery stores, simple errands, and unhurried time with family quickly became the new rhythm. We also took advantage of the downtime to tackle a few small projects and added some personal touches to the Jeep camper that had carried us so far.
Somewhere along the miles in Alaska, our Jeep earned a name: Balto—after the famous sled dog who led the final leg of the 1925 serum run to Nome. We made the new name official with hood lettering, a custom Balto badge, and subtle Easter eggs—tiny sled dogs on the wheels and a full team tucked into a corner of the windshield. Our brother Ian even printed a small husky using his resin 3D printer, a final detail that felt just right.
Rest didn’t last long. After three weeks, the pull to explore returned. We convinced Ian and his son Liam to join us for a weekend escape to Bruneau Sand Dunes and the canyons south of Mountain Home. It was a short trip, but a good reminder that adventure doesn’t always require distance—just the right company and a bit of open space.
October – Jeep Badge of Honor
October carried September’s easy pace forward. Warm days and clear skies made it easy to keep visiting family while quietly planning the next chapter of travel. As we researched where to spend the coming winter, we stumbled across the Jeep Badge of Honor program—a system that encourages owners to explore off-road trails, connect with the community, and earn badges by completing iconic routes.
The timing couldn’t have been better. In 2025, Jeep added Lost Trail as an official Badge of Honor route, and it happened to be the next scheduled run for the Boise Jeep Club.
On a bright Saturday—likely the last truly sunny weekend of the month—more than fifteen Jeeps gathered to take on the trail together. The group couldn’t have been more varied, but the shared love of the vehicle and the terrain erased any differences. It was a fitting way to close out the season: tires on dirt, good people, and one more reminder that the road ahead was still wide open.
November – Salt Flats, Southwestern Scenery, and Being Thankful
Winter was closing in. We could feel it in the cool autumn air as we loaded the last bag into Balto and hugged our family goodbye. Our plan was simple: reach the Bonneville Salt Flats using mostly dirt. We set the GPS to avoid pavement whenever possible, winding through dusty ranch roads across southern Idaho before climbing into the narrow mountain trails near the historic mining town of Jarbidge, Nevada, and the surrounding Jarbidge Wilderness.
After two remote days on the road, we arrived at the blinding white expanse of the Bonneville Salt Flats and camped nearby. Before sunrise the next morning, we drove out onto the salt itself, searching for the perfect spot to watch the day begin. The stillness, the reflection, and the scale of it all made for one of those mornings that never gets old. We spent hours photographing the flats and filming a walkaround video of the many modifications we’d made to Balto. Bonneville remains one of our favorite places on Earth—though the nearly $20 and 45 minutes spent pressure-washing salt from the wheel wells and underside afterward was a reminder that beauty often comes at a cost.
That evening, we pushed on well past dark toward another place we’d been eager to experience at sunrise: Sun Tunnels, Nancy Holt’s iconic earthwork tucked deep into Utah’s Great Basin Desert. Waking up among the four massive concrete cylinders—precisely aligned with the summer and winter solstices—felt oddly similar to the salt flats. Holt managed to create something both monumental and completely in harmony with the surrounding emptiness, an artwork that belongs exactly where it sits.
From there, we joined the western entrance of the Transcontinental Railroad Backcountry Byway, following roughly 90 miles of off-road trail along the original Central Pacific Railroad grade. Completed in 1869, this stretch of rail once connected the nation coast to coast and forever changed travel in the United States. Driving it slowly, with nothing but open desert and history stretching in both directions, made that legacy feel tangible.
After reaching the Golden Spike National Historic Site at Promontory Summit, we returned to pavement and headed south toward Canyonlands National Park in southeastern Utah. This region never disappoints. The towering red rock landscapes, deep canyons, and sculpted sandstone formations continue to draw us back time and again. Despite the late-autumn chill, we planned to spend several weeks exploring. Highlights included Black Dragon Canyon, Horseshoe Canyon, Bluejohn Canyon, and Goblin Valley State Park, where we were treated to crisp, sunny days hovering around 50 degrees—nearly perfect for wandering.
By the third week of the month, however, the weather forecast turned less forgiving. With storms on the horizon, we decided to pause our Utah plans and head south to spend Thanksgiving with family in Arizona.
It turned out to be the perfect way to end the month. Garnet and her family welcomed us warmly and hosted one of the most memorable Thanksgiving dinners we’ve ever experienced. Each of her six kids and guests prepared a dish from a different country, and I was tasked with making an English-style ham. The weather was so warm and sunny that we moved the celebration outdoors, sharing food from around the world and stories around the table. It was exactly how Thanksgiving should be spent—and a fitting, grateful close to November.
December – Southwestern Sun, a Quiet Christmas, and Alien Landscapes
Our final month of the year turned out to be one of the most rewarding. December began among the red rock landscapes of Sedona, Arizona—and by pure luck, our timing was perfect. Arriving just after Thanksgiving, we caught Sedona in a rare lull, with blue skies, mild temperatures, and remarkably few people.
Normally busy sites like Tuzigoot and Montezuma Castle National Monuments were nearly empty, letting us explore at an unhurried pace. Even Sedona’s most popular off-road trails—Schnebly Hill and Broken Arrow—felt calm and open. One evening, we hiked Cathedral Rock for sunset and were surprised to find only a handful of others sharing the view. For a place known for crowds, it felt like we had been granted a brief glimpse of a quieter, more intimate Sedona.
Continuing north, our focus shifted to ancestral Puebloan sites. Walnut Canyon, Wukoki Pueblo, and the remote ruins of Falling Roof, Citadel, Moon House, and House on Fire each felt like discoveries rather than destinations—especially those that demanded careful planning, four-wheel drive, and long hikes. Throughout the week, the weather held steady, giving us ideal conditions to explore these fragile places with time and intention.
Back in October, we had secured a highly sought-after permit for the White Rim Road in Canyonlands National Park, including a night at the remote White Crack campground. We fully expected winter weather to force a cancellation. Instead, as we rolled into the Canyonlands Visitor Center to collect our permit, we realized we’d caught another rare window. Clear skies and stable conditions would hold for the entire week.
Over three days, we circled the White Rim—challenging at times, peaceful throughout. The scale, solitude, and shifting light made it one of the most special experiences of the year.
Back in Moab, the momentum continued. We tackled classic off-road routes like Fins and Things, Chicken Corners, Elephant Hill, and Lost World. Arches National Park delivered just as strongly, with hikes to Delicate Arch, through Devil’s Garden, and—thanks to a rare permit—deep into the Fiery Furnace. Moab proved once again that you could spend a month there and still want more.
So we stayed. We rented an Airbnb for the week of Christmas, slowed everything down, cooked proper meals, and spent the holiday quietly together. It was exactly what we needed, and Moab felt like the right place to pause.
As temperatures dipped below freezing, we pushed south into the Four Corners region of southwestern Colorado and northern New Mexico. There, we continued exploring Puebloan history at Hovenweep, Canyons of the Ancients, and Aztec Ruins National Monuments—each adding another layer to our understanding of this landscape’s deep past.
We ended the year in the Bisti/De-Na-Zin Wilderness of northern New Mexico. Stepping into this remote high desert felt like walking onto another planet—an alien landscape of hoodoos, spires, eroded sandstone, and winding canyons. With endless space to roam and plenty of quiet places to camp, it felt like a fitting place to close the year.
Remote, humbling, and otherworldly—Bisti was the perfect ending to an unforgettable year of travel.
A Year of Magnificent Memories
So no—we don’t get tired of traveling. Because over the past year, those 29,000 miles weren’t about distance or destinations. They were about wading in the frigid Arctic Ocean, watching salt flats glow at sunrise, sharing quiet camps far from cell service, and finding joy in places we never planned to linger. Three countries, multiple states and territories, countless dirt roads—and not a single moment that felt wasted.
It was just two travelers, our capable vehicles, and the freedom to keep saying yes to what came next. The cameras are full, the stories are still unfolding, and the map is far from finished. And as long as there’s more of this world to explore, we know exactly where we’ll be—somewhere down the road.
What to Expect for 2026
As incredible as our Jeep has been, we’re ready to return to the unmatched freedom of two wheels. This April, we’ll head back to Idaho to store the Jeep, load up our trusty Kawasaki KLR650s, and point them toward central and eastern Canada. From there, we’ll ride south through the eastern United States before shipping the bikes to South America. More adventure awaits…
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